Many who have learned
from Hesiod the countless names
of gods and monsters
never understand
that night and day are one

It's possible to name everything and to destroy the world.

All words are possible, then, all names. They rain down, all these words, they disintegrate into a powdery avalanche. Belched from the volcano's mouth, they spurt in to the sky, then fall again. In the quivering air, like gelatine, the sounds trace their bubble paths. Can you imagine that?

Many confuse things with their names. This is a mistake. A name is only a word and a word will never be the thing itself. And, yet, names – as words – have power, not inherently, but because we give it to them.

I read in a book once that a rose by any other name would smell as sweet, but I've never been able to believe it. I don't believe a rose WOULD be as nice if it was called a thistle or a skunk cabbage.

How many colors are there in a field of grass to the crawling baby unaware of "green"?